


Beloved Gregor, a Scottish Romeo and Juliet

by SteveLovesBucky



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historia Brittonum | The History of the Britons - Nennius, Historical RPF, Real Person Fiction, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Banshees, Canonical Character Death, Clan, Complicated Relationships, Decapitation, Elegy, Execution, F/M, Feud, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forced Marriage, Gaelic Language, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Real Events, Literature, Love/Hate, Lovey-Dovey, Married Couple, Mother-Son Relationship, Pregnancy, Romance, Scotland, Scottish Character, Scottish Gaelic, Songfic, True Love, Widowed, Woobie, Young Love, fan fiction, historical fiction - Freeform, pregnant widow
Language: Gàidhlig
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveLovesBucky/pseuds/SteveLovesBucky
Summary: Marion Campbell, the young widow who composed the lament "Griogal Cridhe" for her husband, Gregor "the Red" MacGregor of Glen Strae, from just before Gregor's capture to the weeks after his execution 7 April, 1570.The events about which Marion could have been inspired to compose her lament for the father of her two little children. Gregor MacGregor and Marion Campbell are very much a "Romeo and Juliet" scenario, except they've been married for about four years and have children.English translation is provided after the Gaelic version.





	Beloved Gregor, a Scottish Romeo and Juliet

**Author's Note:**

> **Griogal Cridhe** (literally _"Gregor of the Heart"_ , or " **Beloved Gregor** "[[1]](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Griogal_Cridhe#cite_note-Griogail_Cridhe_-_Beloved_Gregor-1)) is a traditional [Scottish](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scotland) [lament](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lament) and [lullaby](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lullaby) that was composed in [Gàidhlig](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scottish_Gaelic_language) by Mór Chaimbeul ("Marion Campbell"), the [widow](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Widow) of Griogair Ruadh Mac Griogair ("Gregor the [Red](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_hair) MacGregor") (1541–1570), the chief of the [Clan MacGregor](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clan_MacGregor) of [Glen Strae](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Glen_Strae&action=edit&redlink=1), who was executed at [Taymouth Castle](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taymouth_Castle), [Perthshire](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perthshire), on April 7, 1570.
> 
>   1. ["Griogail Cridhe - Beloved Gregor"](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.scotclans.com/griogal-cridhe-beloved-gregor/).
> ['Griogal Cridhe': Aspects of transmission in the Lament for Griogair Ruadh Mac Griogair of Glen Strae](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.academia.edu/6713649/Griogal_Cridhe_Aspects_of_transmission_in_the_Lament_for_Griogair_Ruadh_Mac_Griogair_of_Glen_Strae) 

> 
> ## 
> 
>   * [Griogal Cridhe as performed by Mac-talla](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scc-XXZDvdE)
>   * [Griogal Cridhe as performed by Áine Minogue](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81XUE5xY7-U)
>   * [Griogal Cridhe as performed by Margaret and Martyn Bennett](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeKcip9EtV0)
> 

> 
> It's such a beautiful, sad song, and I had no idea of the history behind it! That it was written by a young widow as a lament and protest for her husband and a lullaby for their two little boys (the younger, Iain, was born very shortly after his father's execution), partly to ease her own grief and commemorate the father of her children as well as a measured attack on her own family, who orchestrated his capture and beheading.
> 
> Lullabies, like laments for the dead, have been one of few outlets in patriarchal societies where women can express their outrage and frustration at injustice in a measured way with impunity. Directly addressing such affronts were hardly an option.
> 
> There are so many different versions of the lyrics, but the ones I included here seem to be the closest to the truth (as presented in "Aspects of transmission").
> 
> Gregor "the Red" MacGregor and Marion Campbell were very much Romeo and Juliet, except slightly older and married with two little ones... and Juliet is over eight months pregnant with their second child and is forced to watch her own family kill her husband.
> 
> If there is anything that is inconsistent with history, I'd like to know so that I can correct it.

_Moch maduinn air La-Lùnasd’_  
_Bha mi sùgradh ri mo ghràdh:_  
_Ach mu 'n d' thàinig meadhan latha,_  
_Bha mo chridhe air a chràdh._

“’Bheil thu chinnteach gu bheil thu air do ghabhail ri clann a-rith’st, a Mhóraig mo ghràidh?” dh’faighnich Griogair fhad ‘s gun do ruith e a corragan tro gruag donn-ruadh sruthach, a’ dùr-amhrac a-steach do a sùilean glasa le coimeasgadh mhire is tlàthachd gun do lorg Mór daonnan drùidhteach àlainn.

“Tha mi chinnteach, a Ghriogair chridhe! Tha fios a’m gu bheil seo moch fhath’st, ach tha mi a’ mothachadh na sanasan,” Bha cuimhne aig Mór air a leatrom le Alasdair agas na leatroman sin a mnathan-dàimh agas na mnathan-dàimh Ghriogair. Dh’aithnich i an tligheachd, an goirteas na cìche, agas bha a fuil-mhìos glè fhadalach. Ach mhothaich ise fhathast air mhisg làn le aoibhneas anns a’ bhlàths chinneachtach an éirigh ùir na gréine, an Alasdair beag ‘na chadal faisg air làimh.

Dh’fhreagair Griogair i le pòg dhian, ga gaolachadh. 

"A luraig mo ghràidh, cha smaointichinn gum bithinn na b' shonasaiche na duine eile; tha mi suarach mun charraid le ar cinnidhean, 's fhiach thu agas ar n-Alasdran uile rud dhomh. Phòsainn thu gu sona 'rithist nam b'urrainn dhomh a mhaireann mo bheatha 'rithist, a Mhóraig."

Bha Mór fo uallach le deòir aoibhneis. Mus b’urrainn dhi fhreagairt, chuala iad Alasdair a’ mosgladh. 

"A Mhamaig? A Bhobain?" tháinig guth beag na b’ dlùithe dhaibh. Sguab Griogair an caodachan cadalach gu dian ás an làr is chuidheall e leis, araon a’ dealrachamh le gàire, ged cha robh Alasdair ‘na làn-dùisg fhathast.  
"Madainn mhath, a laoigh-tairbh! Dé mar a tha thu? An do chaidil thu gu math?"

Cho doirbh ‘s a bha a’ bheatha air an son leis an nàimhdeas eadar an cinnidhean, co-dhiù bha tiotaidhean mar seo aca. 

Fad tuillidh na linn, bha an Clann Ghriogarach an Ghlinn Sreith is an Clann Chaimbeulach an Ghlinn Uirchidh air a mhaireann ri taobh a chéile, corra uair a’ sabaid ri chéile, ach nas trice càirdeil. Bha Griogair agas Mór ‘nan samhladh beò an cho-cheangail toinnte eadar na cinnidhean; bha Griogair ‘na Ghriogarach agas Mór ‘na Caimbeulach, agas cha robh am pòsadh gu cinnteach ‘na chiad phòsadh eadar na cinnidhean. Bha na dìlseachdan cho triullainn. 

Ach leis a’ mheudachadh na Cloinne Chaimbeulaich o chionn an tòiseachadh lùghdachadh an 1513, tha an Clann Ghriogarach air ‘nan ìochdarain riutha. Gu h-àraidh an 1552 leis an tilgeil na Cloinne Griogaraiche a-mach am Caisteal Bhealach leis a’ mhac bhràthar an Ghleann Uirchidh, a dh’ath-thog a chaisteal fhéin air an làrach. Cha do dh’éirich ach gamhlas o chionn sin.

\-----

“Tha do chéile, an sionnach sin Griogair, ‘nar làimh aig Fionnlairig, a nighein,” thuirt an t-athair Mhóir, Donnchadh Ruadh na Féile, dhi gu goirid fhad ‘s gun robh i a’ coiseachd le Alasdair.

Bha Griogair air a ghlacadh le a cinneadh fhéin? Bha fios aig Mór car ùine gum b’urrainn seo ‘thachairt, gun teirigeadh an sonas a Griogair, ach tháinig a saoghal a’ tuiteam, a’ bruansgal uimpe.

_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_’S goirt mo chridhe laoigh,_  
_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Cha chluinn t-athair ar caoidh._

 

“A Mhamaig?” Ghlac an guth meanbh Alasdair an aire Mhóir. Tron doille deòir, chunnaic Mór an aghaidh ghrinn is na gorm-shùilean móra a chaodachain ga coimhead, agas nochd e fo eagal leis an sealladh a mháthar gu mór tro chéile. 

“Alasdrain mo ghràidh,” phlosg Mór fhad ‘s gun do dhlùth-ghabh e, a’ mothachadh ospagan a’ tòiseachadh a’ crith a bodhaige. Cha b’urrainn dhi leasachadh; bha Alasdair cho coltach ri athair, agas dé mar a theireadh i do balachan air na thachair ri Boban?

_Mallachd aig maithibh is càirdibh_  
_A chràidh mi air an dòigh,_  
_Thàinig gun fhios air mo ghràdh-sa_  
_'S a thug gu làr e le foill._

“Dé tha cearr, a Mhamaig? Càit’ a bheil Boban?” Bha Alasdair air a bhìogail ‘san ioma-ghlacadh éiginneach Mhóir, ga coimhead gu fidreachail air an latha Lùnastal oillteil sin.

Chuir Mór braoisg fhad ‘s gun deach uile rud tuiteam uimpe; bha a muinntir fhéin, ‘nan Caimbeulaich, air a céile bheò-ghlacadh a dh’aithghearr an déidh dh’fhàg e i ‘s Alasdair airson a chreiche maidne ri Cailean Liath. Bha a h-athair fhéin air ‘nam measg a bhith, còmhla le a co-ogha fuathaichte Cailean Liath, a thug air a Griogair ri bó-thàin is spùinneadaireeachd nan Caimbeulach an déidh bha Cailean air Clann Griogarach a thilgeil a-mach a’ Chaisteil Bealaich. 

Bha Cailean Liath, ‘na mhac a’ bhràthar na b’ shine a h-athar, agus am mac Chailein, Donnchadh am fhuilt fhithich gum bu bheag na b’òige na Mór fhéin, do-fhuasgladh ‘na sùilean a-nis. Bu bheag oirre roinn na Cloinne Ghriogaraich, oir bha i fhathast ‘na nighean òg nuair a tháinig am fhalachd gu àirde an 1562. Ach an déidh sin choinnich i Griogair e fhéin.

Fada an 1562, nuair bha Griogair air an aois 21 bliadhna a ruigheachd, an làn-aois, agus a ghabhail os làimh nan Griogarach, bha Cailean Liath air roghainn doirbh a chur air: ceadaichteadh na Griogaraich a’ gléidheadh seilbh an dùthaich sa’ Ghleann Sreith, ach a-mhàin air chor ‘s gun gabhadh na Griogaraich  ri “bacaidhean laghaile sònraichte neo-ainmichte” agas gum beireadh e suas ri Cailean Liath dithis caraid a mharbh òglach Chailein o chionn ghoirid. Nan iarradh Griogair a ghléidheadh Gleann Sreith, an dùthaich a mhuinntire, bhitheadh e aig an luach an aontachaidh ri coir gun lùghdaicheadh e ri ìre òglachais air nach robh a ro-theachdaichean eòlach agas gum milleadh gu follaiseach a ùghdarras ‘na triath. Thug Cailean Liath an ceann-ama 1 Am Fhaoillteach, 1563. 

Bha Griogair air fhreagairt a chur an oidhche 7 An Dùbhlachd, 1562, nuair thug e is còmhlan a chàirdean ionnsaigh air dà buidheann Caimbeulach is an leanmhainnich fhad ‘s gun do thill iad don Ghleann Lìomhainn á féill ann am Peairt. Sa’ chiad ionnsaigh, chuir iad teine ri taigh-tàimh, a’ marbhadh cóignear fear; agas na b’ fhadalaiche sa’ cheart oidhche chuir iad sradag ri sabhal agas ghlac iad na fir a’ cadal ann, aon fear a marbhadh na b’ fhadalaiche. 

Cha robh am fhalachd ach air a theannachadh o sin, ged bh’ann sìochladh sa’ ghamhalas o fada ann an 1565 ris an Iuchair, 1567; ged bha dàimh eadar na cinnidhean fhathast fo spàirn, fhuair Griogair agus Mór air coinneachadh.

A dh’aindeoin a’ mhì-chiataidh nam pàrant Mhóir agus na dà teaghlach, theich ‘s phòs Griogair agus Mór gun fhiosda. Nuair phòs iad, bha Griogair 25 bliadhna a dh’aois agas bha Mór 18 bliadhna a dh’aois.

Bha Griogair cho h-àlainn rithe: àrd is lùthmhor le feusag ghrinn gum b’ionann a dh’fhreagair a fhuilt ruaidh agas a ghorm-shùilean móra ‘bha fiadhaich is cruaidh le nàimhdean no tlàth is grinn leatha agas am macan, Alasdair Ruadh, aig a bha am falt ruadh is gorm-shùilean a athar. Far am bhitheadh Griogair euchdail is dàna is dhiùltadh e ‘nochdadh ìochdalachd ri nàimhdean, bha e spòrsach ‘s mear le càirdean is muinntir agas beadarach ‘s blàth-chridheach le Mór is Alasdair.

 

_Na 'm biodh dà fhear dheug a chinnidh,_  
_'S mo Ghriogair air an ceann,_  
_Cha bhiodh mo shùil a' sìleadh dheur_  
_No mo leanabh féin gun dàimh._

Uair is uair a bharrachd car ochd mìos, thagair Mór a thadhal Griogair agus, uair is uair a bharrachd, dhiùlt a teaghlach a tagradh. Cha do chuidich seo ach a chur connadh ris an teine a mìothlachd riutha. 

“Carson, a Dhia? A Dhia gléidh Griogair Ruadh MacGriogair ás na foilltean mo chàirdean breugach!” Rinn Mór ùrnaigh gu dìorrasach. Cha b’urrainn dhi leasachadh gum bu mhiann leatha gun robh Griogair le còmhlan a chinnidh; bhiodh cothrom aige an aghaidh a dàimhean fealltaile, ‘s dòcha bhiodh e air a chur ruaig orra.  
Ach na b’ mhiosa na bliadhna ‘n déidh a ghlacadh, bha Griogair marbh. Bha ise ‘na banntrach agas bha Alasdair ‘na dhìlleachdan. Agas le cabhag mhì-iomhchaidh, phòs a teaghlach i ris an Ridire Raibeart Mèinnearach, aig a bha an ainm ùr “Am Baran na Dalach”. Baran na dalach. Dh’fhanaid i fhathast an t-ainm agas a céile ùr.

_Chuir iad a cheann air ploc daraich,_  
_'S dhòirt iad fhuil mu làr; <_  
_Na 'm biodh agams' an sin copan,_  
_Ch' òlainn dith mo shàth._

Bha Mór chinnteach gun robh an saoghal air a stadadh. Mhàg tiota mar a n t-sìorraidheachd. Chaidh sparradh oirre, ‘na máthair òg, bheò-leatromach, a choimhead fhad ‘s gun tug Cailean Liath e fhéin an ceann de a Griogair ionmhainn.  
Bha e 7 an Giblean, 1570, agus bha a’ mhadainn fhathast a’ fosgladh. Cha robh a Griogair cridhe ach 29 bliadhna a dh’aois. Agas dhòirt gaorr corcar fhathast ás a’ chorp a céile ionmhainn fhad ‘s gun robh a cheann gu mì-shuaric air ghiùlan air falbh ‘s air chur air stob a fhollseachadh gun deach dèanamh air “ceartas”. Thug an dòmhlachd a muinntire a’ fritheal an dì-cheannachaidh iolach faramach, ach cha robh e gu leòr a bhàthadh a cràdh-ghal. Mura robh a co-oghaichean air a bhith ga bacadh, mura robh i air a bhith an imis naoi mìosan trom air clann, bha i air ruith don chorp shìnte a céile. Bha i, ‘na bròn, air a fhuil air dhòirteadh òl.

_'S truagh nach robh m' athair an galar,_  
_'S Cailean ann am plàigh,_  
_Ged bhiodh nighean an Ruthainich_  
_A' suathadh bhas is làmh._

Mhothaich Mór a cràdh ag at a-steach do fearg a dh’ionnsaigh a muinntir airson a’ ghlacaidh is a’ mharbhaidh a céile, airson a’ bhrathaidh seo am mnà-dàimh fhéin. Ghabh a h-athair fhéin pàirt! Agas a co-ogha na galla, Cailean, thug ise esan gu dìoladh airson na h-eucorach; bha esan air Caisteal Bealach a ghabhail os làimh ás na Griogaraich, a’ tilgeil an triatha a-mach, ‘na dhà glùn Ghriogair. Agas a-nis bha e an àrainn agas an làrach a’ bhàis a Ghriogar chridhe. 

Bha fios aig Mór gun robh ann beag gum b’urrainn dhi a dhèanamh a thaobh dìoghaltais ri a cinneadh air na robh iad air dèanamh rithe. Cha stad sin is on figheadh a feirge ‘steach don tuireadh gun do thòisich i a’ dèanamh airson a Griogair, agas bha duilgheadas aice air a’ chur breug-riochd air a sàrachadh is diomb. Dh’iarr i a’ marbhadh Chailein, ach bha fannachd aice fhathast airson a mhnaoi, Caitrìona, ‘na nighean Ruthainich; bha na dà bean air chòrdadh le chéile daonnan, a dh’aindeoin a’ ghiùlain ùr Chailein, agas cha do dh’iarr Mór a bean-dàimh sa’ mhairtireachd cheudna a’ bhanntrachais gun robh ise ‘fulang.

_Chuirinn Cailean liath fo ghlasaibh_  
_'S Donnchadh dubh an làimh,_  
_'S gach Caimbeulach tha 'm Bealach_  
_A ghiùlan na glais-làimh._

Le a fir-dàimh mallaichte, Cailean Liath agas a mhac Donnchadh Dubh, cha b’urrainn Mór a lorg ‘na cridhe an comas gam mathadh, no airson sin dheth luchd-dàimh sam bith aice gun d’rinn co-fheall leotha agas gun do chum a-nis an oighreachd an teaghlaich Ghriogair, a’ Chaisteal Bealach. Nam biodh sin ‘s a toil, dhèanadh Mór iad fhulang an cràdh ceudna gun do dh’fhuiling a Griogair leotha, gun robh ise air fulang leotha. Chiùrr e tuilleadh na b’urrainn dhi chur an céill a-chaoidh gun do mharbh a teaghlach fhéin am fear a gràidh. Dé mar a b’urrainn don mhuinntir a gràidh a bhith ‘nis ‘nam muinntir gun do ghràinich ‘s mhì-earb i? Agas Cailean Liath, air a son-sa dheth thug i esan gu dìoladh iomlan airson a mì-shealbha.

Bu chòir dhaibh uile bhith fo’n uallach nan slabhraidhean agus air thilgeil a-steach don toll-dhubh a’ chaisteil, dhise dheth. Dh’iarr is fhaicinn na caoiltean an dùirnean ‘s an casan rùisgte le geimhlean troma, agas airson Chailein agas Dhonnchaidh, chuireadh Mór iad ann am brangasan agas dh’fhàgadh i iad gu sìorraidh anns na h-innichean dorcha, taise a’ chaisteil.

_Ràinig mise réidhlean Bhealaich_  
_'S cha d' fhuair mi ann tàmh;_  
_Cha d' fhàg mi roinn de m' fhalt gun tarruing_  
_No craiceann air mo làimh._

Nuair b’urrainn dhi fhàgadh a cinneadh car tiota an déidh an dì-cheannachaidh, ruith Mór cho luath ‘s gum b’urrainn don leatrom a leigeil ris na réidhlean a-mach a’ Chaisteal Bealach, ‘na h-éiginn airson iom-fhuasglaidh on chràdh gun robh a’ plosgadh innte. Ach bha fios aice gum b’ e dìomhain. 

Theich sgreadan ‘s reachd bhuaipe nach do dh’fhiosraich i a-riamh. Bha a’ mharbh-phian ‘na cridhe fhathast leòn cosgarra nach beireadh fois sam bith dhi. Bha a cinneadh fhéin air a cridhe brùilleadh an ceartair. Ghiùlain i uiread a dòrainn gun robh i a’ pìochail ‘s a’ pòchail, agas ghairistinnich a h-anail gu h-ainneartach fhad ‘s gun do dh’fhàs e léir rithe na thachair ri a Griogair. Rùisg i a bréid á ceann, an samhail mhnà-phòsta, agus tharraing i a gruag an cuthach, a’ bualadh a dòrnan an aghaidh an rùisg ghairbh daraich dlùth rithe, ‘na h-éiginn a lorg cràdh eile fhalachadh an cràdh a’ bhròin. Bha i móran a gruaige air sracadh goirid agus bha a làmhan fuilteach ás an ionnsaigh ris an darach, ach cha d’rinn e math sam bith dhi. 

Sgread is, ag ochanaich ‘s a’ caoineadh mar a’ bhean-shìthe. Ach chaoin na mnathan-sìthe a thoirt rabhadh do teaghlaichean bhàis ri thighinn; bha fios aig Mór gun robh a caoineadh déidh-làimh a thoirt rabhadh ri neach sam bith. Bha a Griogair marbh a-cheana.

_'S truagh nach robh mi 'n riochd na h-uiseig;_  
_Spionnadh Ghriogair ann mo làimh;_  
_'S i chlach is àirde anns a' chaisteal_  
_A' chlach a b' fhaisge do 'n bhlàr._

_'S truagh nach robh Fionnlairig 'na lasair,_  
_Is Bealach mór 'na smà'l,_  
_Is Griogair mór nam basan geala <_  
_Bhi eadar mo dhà làimh._

Air phasgadh ‘na fearg ‘s bròn, cha b’urrainn Mór a bheirsinn an sealladh a’ chaisteil far an robh Griogair air chur gu bàs, an caisteal ceudna gun do ghoid a cinneadh ás a’ chinneadh aige. Bha e air a bhith truaillte le a cinneadh agas tàmailt air chur dìreach air leis a’ bhàs a Griogair; nan robh a chumhachd agas a toil fhéin aice, leagadh ise fhéin an caisteal chun làr. Mura robh i throm air clann, sracadh Mór ise fhéin sìos an togalach far an robh an luaidh a céile air a bhith air mhortadh. Sracadh is sìos an dùn a teaghlaich, Fionnlairig, a bha air a bhith am prìomh-dhùn gus an robh Cailean Liath na galla air Beallach a ghoid ás a’ Chlann Ghriogaraich. Agas bha a Griogair air a bhith ‘na phrìosanach ann gus an robh e air chòmhdalach ris a’ chathair shin a theaghlaich aig Bealach airson a dhì-cheannachadh. Bha a teaghlach air a diùltadh ga thadhal uair is uair, a dh’aindeoin a tagraidhean. 

Sgreuch ‘s chaoin Mór mar bean gun chiall, os ìosal a’ mallachadh a cinnidh agas an dùnan far an do chum iad a Griogair Ruadh ‘na bhràigh. Bu choma leatha nam biodh na dà caisteal ann an aibheis loisgeach nan chiallaicheadh e gum b’urrainn do Griogair a bhith air leigheas chun bheatha. Cho mì-chinnteach ‘s a b’urrainn don bheatha bhith, bha Mór air a bruadar gum fàsadh ise ‘s Griogair aosda còmhla, gum bitheadh móran pataich thlachdmhora agus móran oghaichean. Bha còir aig Griogair air a bhith ann ga chuideachadh an dàrna patach a-steach don t-saoghail…! 

_'S ged tha mi gun ùbhlan agam,_  
_'S ùbhlan uil' aig càch,_  
_'S ann tha m' ubhal cùbhraidh, grinn,_  
_Is cùl a chinn ri làr._

Ubhlan a bha air iomlaid cho cumanta ri ròsan airson ghaoil, dh’iomlaid Mór agas Griogair iad cho tric. Chan Griogair rithe aon uair “m’ubhal as grinne ‘s mealaiche”, agas bha is air cantainn ris “m’abhall trom nam meas”. Air a’ chruadal a leth a-muigh agas a mhì-thròcair le nàimhdean, thuit an t-aodann stàilinneach Griogair air falbh a dh’aithghearr uimpe agas mu Alasdair.  

Bha an damh a gràidh, a h-ubhail a b’ ghrinne, a-nis a’ laigheadh marbh an glumag a fhala fhéin, a cheann grinn gearrta o chorp agas air chur air stob. Fhad ‘s gun robh a’ chuid a bu mhotha nam ban òga eile a h-aoise phòsta a-cheana le co-dhiù son patach, bha is air a dèanamh banntrach ‘san dòigh a b’ bhuirbe so-dhèanta.  
Ach Alasdair agas a dàrna leanabh gun bhreith, cha robh is ri gam géilleadh. Cha b’urrainn dhi a big géilleadh. Airson an athar, cha thréigeadh i am pataich.

_Ged tha mnathan chàich aig baile_  
_'Nan laighe 'n cadal sèimh,_  
_'S ann bhios mis' aig bruaich mo leapa_  
_A' bualadh mo dhà làimh._   

A-mhàin trì bliadhna a dh’aois, cha b’urrainn Alasdair Ruadh a chadal. Bha an oillt o chionn trì làithean air a sgaoileadh ris, ged bha Mamag air a dèanamh a dìcheall ga dhìon ás na taobhan a b’ mhiosa. Cha b’urrainn dha stadadh a’ smaointeachadh air Boban, nach robh e air a fhaicinn eadar an cur an sàs is am bàs-lag. Agas a-nis bha a chuimhne dheireannach athar an tulgaidh chuirp, fhala, glaodh searbh, agas Mamag a’ rànail ‘s a’ caoineadh. 

O chota dlùth ri a leabaidh, chunnaic Alasdair a’ chruth a mháthar a’ suidhe air a’ bhruach a leapa. Chunnaic e is a’ tunnachdail, a brù air séideadh gu mór cho dlùth don deireadh a leatromachd, a làmhan an dòrnan ‘s air bruthadh còmhla fhad ‘s gun do bhuail is’ iad ri a glùintean. B’urrainn dha a cluinntinn ag ochanaich. Reachd mór, cràdh-ghal. Bha an t-eagal air fhathast a fhaicinn Mamag air chur troimh-chéile cho mór. 

“A Mhamaig…! Le do thoil, bi gu math,” Chuala Mór an guth meanbh sin tro a breisleach agas thionndaidh a h-aire gu luath don chota beagan ceuman air falbh. Choimhid an aghaidh ghrinn bheag Alasdair i le sùilean móra fo geilt. Ann an tiotag, bha i ri a thaobh.

“Alasdrain, a laoigh,” phloisg i gu briste, ga ghabhail a-steach do a gàirdeanan, “Mo ghaol ort…! Tha mi duilich airson seo… tha gràdh agam ort, a mhoigein!”

A dh’aindeoin a cràidh fhéin, bha fios aig Mór gum feumadh ise bhith làidir airson a cloinne. Bha Alasdair air a bhith a’ dèanamh fhianaise don dh’oillt a’ mhoirt athar agas, cho briste ‘s gum b’ise, bha fios aice gum feumadh geilt bhith dìreach air Alasdair. A-nis bha fearg na b’ mhotha a-mach buileach oirre air a cinneadh.  
.  
_’S mor a b’ annsa bhi aig Griogair,_  
_Air feadh coille ’s fraoich_  
_Na bhi aig Baran crion na dalach,_  
_Ann tigh cloich a’s aoil._

_'S mór a b' annsa bhi aig Griogair_  
_Cur a' chruidh do 'n ghleann_  
_Na bhi aig Baron beag na Dalach_  
_'G òl air fìon is leann._

_'S mór a b' annsa bhi aig Griogair_  
_Fo bhrat ribeach ròin_  
_Na bhi aig Baron beag na Dalach_  
_Giùlan sìoda 's sròil._

Oir bha e soilleir gun robh Mór air clann le Griogair agas gun robh e marbh a-nis, bha a’ Chlann Chaimbeulach is air a pòsadh le cabhag dìreach neo-thròcaireach ris an Ridire Raibeart Mèinnearach, a bha athair air faighinn an t-ainm “Am Baran na Dalach”. Bha am “Baran” ‘na chéile fada na b’ bhuannachdaile air a cinneadh, agas bha e beartach gu leòr a sholar sòghalachd. Ach ‘s e tàmailt dhìblidh a bha seo ri banntrach leatromaich fo bhròn. 

“Bidh mise ‘nam Bhainiarla nan Sè Abhaill ma tha esan ‘na Bharan na Dalach!” Smaointich Mór gu searbh. B’urrainn don Mhèinnearach a sholar am brod gun b’urrainn fear a inbhe cheannach, fìon is leann is sòghaltachd eile, ach cha dèan seo mùthadh idir le Mór. Cha do chuir seo ach cudthrom air an neo-iochdmhorachd a coir. Dh’ionndrainn i a’ coiseachd le Griogair nuair dh’iomain iad a chrodh don ghleann, tro na coilltean agas thairis a’ mhonaidh, thairis aibhnichean is uillt, gun umhail don dh’fhuachd no sile no ghaoith na h-aimsire. Bha am bratan aca, bha iad le chéile. A’ ghabhail pògan eadar an stiùiridh nan cù-chaorach leis a’ bhuachailleachd, mar a chniadaich ‘s dh’aor e a brù air séid car a leatruim le Alasdair, mar a nochd e dhi tlàths nach do nochd e do neach sam bith.

Ach an àite, bha i ghlacta ann am pòsadh gun tug a teaghlach oirre, ri fear gum b’ lugha leatha. ‘S e an Tighearna agus a’ Bhaintighearna na Dalach a bha iad a-nis. Agas mhothaich is mhùchta leis an sìoda, an sròil, agas a’ bhealbhaid a ghiùlain i. Eadhan nuair chuir i brat sgrìobach ribeach oirre fhéin nuair choisich i le Griogair tron uisge, bha i ‘na bainrìgh leis. Bu Griogair a Tighearna agas b’ise a Bhaintighearna.

_Ged bhiodh cur is cathadh ann_  
_Is latha nan seachd sìon,_  
_Gheibheadh Griogair dhòmhsa cnagan_  
_'San caidleamaid fo dhìon._

“’Bheil thu cinnteach gum bi sinn sàbhalte an-seo, a leannain mo chridhe?” 

Cha robh e fada an déidh bha iad air am pòsadh agas bha iad glacta ann an rotach siantach, gun chumhachd a ruigheachd taigh, agas dh’amhraic Mór gu teagamhach am fasgadh creige ris a thomh Griogair gu spéiseil. 

“Tha, gu dearbh, a luraig,”  
Chuir am fiamh-ghàire ‘s an dian-amhrac gaolach Ghriogair a h-inntinn aig fois beag,  
“Tha mi eòlach air am fhasgadh seo; tha mi air a chadal an-seo iomadh oidhche. Chan eil mi air a tuil mhothachadh an-seo ‘riadh. Tiugainn!”

Air thus teabadach, lorg Mór gu luath gun robh e ceart. Ged cha robh cadal air làr oisne creagaiche an rud a b’ chofhurtaile, cha robh i air a cadal cho sèimh o chionn fhada. B’ann a bha iad sàbhailte ás a’ ghaoith ‘s an uisge. Agas leis na gàirdeanan làidire Ghriogair uimpe, a làmhan móra a’ ruith gu gaolach tro a ciabhan donna-ruaidhe fhad ‘s gun do shuath is na camagan mìne a fhuilt ruaidh, a’ dùr-amhrac a-steach do na sùilean a chéile.

“Mo ghaol ortsa, a Mhóraig mo ghràidh,” rinn Griogair crònan do Mór, miann a’ snuadhachadh ‘na shùilean, miann gun robh a’ blàthadh ‘sna sùilean Mhóir.  
“Mo ghaol ortsa, a Ghriogair chridhe,” dh’fhreagair Mór, “’S miann leam thu, a leannain...!”

Bha an t-sìde fhada na b’ fheàrr nuair a dhùisg iad. Bha fiamh-gàire sgìth o Griogair a’ chiad sealladh gun cunnaic Mór.

“Madainn mhath, a luraig.”  
“Madainn mhath, a chridhe,” rinn Mór fiamh-gàire guanach fhad ‘s gun do phàirtich iad a’ chiad phòg na fàilte na maidne. Bha an dìoghras an-raoir fhathast soilleir ‘nam fiamh-gàire uallach.

Agas an uair sin, bha cuimhne aice a _bréid_.  
A’ bhréid sin gheal gum b’ann a chomharraich bean-phòsta ás na caileagan is na gruagaich, a chuir stiom orra ach gum b’ann ceannrùisgte air mhodh eile, chiallaich i an uabhas dhi a-nis, ‘na h-òg-bhean phòsta do fear a bha a chridhe ‘s anam fillte leis na fir aice fhéin.  
“Càit’ a bheil mo bhréid?” dh’fhaighnich Mór, gu h-ealamh fo iomagain.

Ráinig Griogair air a cùlaibh agas thog e a’ bhréid on làr, ga h-udal tharta le fiamh-gàire gu cleasanta,  
“A Mhóraig, mar thigeadh an deireadh an t-saoghail le bréid chaillte.  Mo ghaol ortsa.”

Bha fios aig Mór an ceartair, a dh’aindeoin anacaire reangaiche air a’ ghamhalas eadar an cinnidhean agas a h-iomagain fhéin ‘na h-òg-bhean, gum maireadh am pòsadh. Nuair dh’innis i do Griogair iomadh seachdain an déidh sin gum bitheadh e ‘na athair a dh’aithghearr, ghabh i iongnadh dhen àigh aice fhad ‘s gun do choimhid i an coltas àrd-éibhneach air an aodann Ghriogair. 

\-----

“A Mhamaig, dé ‘tha cearr?”  
Bha na sùilean Alasdar glaineach le eagal fhad ‘s gun do rinn Mór braoisg. Bha an aisead air thòiseachadh. Cha b’urrainn dhi a chreidsinn gun robh seo a’ tachairt; bha Griogair marbh, ‘na chéile a cridhe agas ‘na athair a cloinne, marbh le a luchd-dàimh fhéin, agas a-nis cho luath an déidh a dhì-cheannachadh mhothaich ise na h-iodhnaidhean. 

“Tha e gu math, a laoigh,” dh’innis Mór breug fhad ‘s gun d’rinn na dùmhlachaidhean gach tiota siùbhlach na b’ lugha ‘s na b’ lugha na cofhurtail, “Tha do bhràthran deas a bhith air bhreith,” thionndaidh i ri aon nam ban-òglaich a bha a céile ùr air a solar, “Nach geibheadh sibh a’ bhean-glùine, a Shìneig? Gu h-aithghearr, ma ‘s e ur toil e.”

“Gheibhinn, a Bhaintighearna,” tháinig am freagairt shoineanta. Dh’aithnich a’ bhan-òglach Sìneag, ‘na gruagach mu cóig bliadhna na b’ òige na Mór, an éiginn ‘san òrdugh a bana-mhaighstir agas theich i a fhaighinn a’ bhean-glùine.

Mhothaich uairean mar làithean fhad ‘s gun deach iad seachad agas thug Mór grèim éiginneach air a’ làimh na cathrach-breith agas ghabh i fois an aghaidh a peathar, Ealasaid, a sheas air a cùlaibh, ga thaiceadh, “Sin agadsa dhut, a Mhóraig, tha mi an-seo. Gabh romhad.”

“Th’ann an ceann, a Bhaintighearna, tha sibh a’ dèanamh gu math. Brùthaibh,” chuir a’ bhean-glùine roimhpe gu réimeil fhad ‘s gun táinig an ceann am follais agas chuala i an gal leanabain.

Ann an neul, thug Mór ùmhlachd don dh’àithne chiùin agas chuala i a dh’aithghearr an éigheachd aoibheach, “’S e balachan brèagha, a Bhaintighearna Mór. Dia leibh!” 

_Ba hù, ba hù, asrainn bhig,_  
_Cha 'n 'eil thu fathast ach tlàth;_  
_'S eagal leam nach tig an latha_  
_Gu 'n dìol thu t' athair gu bràth._

 

‘S e naoidhean calma a bha Iain dubh, agas a dh’aindeoin a fhuilt dhuibh bha e glè choltach ri Griogair. Agas far an robh Alasdair air a bhith ‘na naoidhean solta, rugadh Iain a’ sgreadadh agas uaisneach agas shaoil Mór nan robh a cràdh gun do ghiùlain is car na codach a b’ motha nam mìos gun do ghiùlain i e air a dhealbhadh.  
Bha na balachain seo uile a bha aice an athar a dh’fhuirich, agas chiùrr e ‘rithist fhathast nach robh Griogair beò tuilleadh agas nach coinnicheadh a mhac na b’ òige. Dhìon Mór iad le a beatha. 

B’ainneamh e gun do chaidil Alasdair agas Iain a dh’aon àm. B’ann a sheinn Mór gu tric iad a chadal. Bha i air a bhith a’ dèanamh tuireadh airson Ghriogair agas, gun chomas a chur an céill a cràdh agas a sàrachadh ann an dòighean na b’ dhìriche, rinn i e mar òran-tàlaidh airson a mic. Agas cha robh is dhiùid air seinn an tàlaidh ‘san làthair a ban-òglaich. 

“Ar n-Athair air Nèamh, airson mo Ghriogair chridhe, gun ruig mo mhic inbheachd. Cumaibh faire orra, gum mair iad beò dhìoladh an athair,” smaointich Mór fhad ‘s gun do choimhid i a bhalachain a’ cadal, a’ gabhail gnothan an òrain a dhèanamh cinnteach gun do chaidil iad.

“Caidlibh, a laoighein mo chridhe. Sibh ‘san dìon Dé, agus mise le mo bhròn,” smaointich Mór gu cumhach fhad ‘s gun do choimhid i iad an trom-ghràdhachadh, “Gum bi cuimhne agaibh gu bheil gaol aig Mamag is Boban oirbh. Gun cì Boban ceartas.”

_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_’S goirt mo chridhe laoigh,_  
_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Cha chluinn t-athair ar caoidh._

 

**Beloved Gregor, translation**

_Early in the morning the first of August_  
_I was sporting with my love,_  
_But before midday had come,_  
_My heart was left in ruins._

“Are you sure that you’re with child again, Marion darling?” Griogair asked as he ran his fingers through Mór's flowing chestnut hair, gazing deep into her grey-green eyes with combined elation and tenderness that Mór found always took her breath away.

“I am sure, my beloved Gregor! I know that it is still early, but I recognise the signs.” Mór remembered her pregnancy with Alasdair and those of her kinswomen and Griogair’s kinswomen.  She recognised the nausea, the soreness of the breasts, and her monthly courses were very late. But she still felt thoroughly intoxicated with joy in the increasing warmth of the new sunrise, their little Alasdair sleeping nearby.

Griogair answered her with an eager kiss, cuddling her. 

"My darling beauty, I could not think that I would be happier than anybody else; I care not about the trouble with our clans, you and our little Alastair are worth everything to me. I would marry you again if I could live my life again, my Marion."

Mór was overcome with tears of joy. Before she could answer, they heard Alasdair stirring.

" Mama? Papa?" a little voice came closer to them. Griogair eagerly swept the sleepy toddler from the ground and spun with him, both of them beaming, although Alasdair was still a bit sleepy.  
" Good morning, my little bull-calf! How are you? Did you sleep well?"

As difficult as life had been for them with the hostilities between their families, at least they had moments like this. 

For well over a century, Clan Griogair of Gleann Sreith and Clan Campbell of Gleann Uirchidh had lived side-by-side, sometimes at odds with each other, but more often amicable. Griogair and Mór were a living example of this complicated relationship between the two clans; Griogair was of Clan Griogair and Mór was of Clan Campbell, and they were certainly not the first or only marriage between the rival clans. The loyalties were so mixed. 

But the expansion of clan Campbell since the beginning of a decline in 1513, the Clan Griogair had become vassals to them. Especially with the 1552 ousting of Clan Griogair from Castle Bealach by Mór’s paternal cousin, Cailean Liath of Gleann Uirchidh, who had rebuilt his own castle on the site. Tensions had only risen since then.

\-----

“Your husband, that fox Gregor, is in our custody at Finlarig, daughter,” Mór’s father, Duncan the Red of Glenlyon, told her bluntly as she was out walking with Alasdair.

Griogair had been captured by her own family? Mór had known for some time that this could happen, that her Griogair’s luck would run out, but now her world had come crashing down around her.

_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Sore is my heart, my darling child;_  
_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Your father won’t hear our cries._

“Mama?” Alasdair’s tiny voice caught Mór’s attention. Through her tears, Mór saw her toddler’s sweet face and big blue eyes watching her, and he looked frightened at the sight of his mother so upset. 

“Alec, my darling,” Mór gasped as she held him close, feeling sobs begin to shake her body. She couldn’t help it; Alasdair looked so much like his father, and how could she tell her little boy what happened to Papa?

_A curse on nobles and relations_  
_Who have destroyed me thus;_  
_Who came upon my love unawares,_  
_and took him prisoner by treachery._

“What’s wrong, Mama? Where is Papa?” Alasdair had squeaked in Mór’s desperate embrace, looking up at her inquisitively that terrible August day.

Mór grimaced as everything that had happened came crashing around her; her own kin, clan Campbell, had taken her husband prisoner soon after he left her and Alastair for the morning raid against Cailean Liath. Her own father had been amongst them, in addition to her loathed cousin Cailean Liath, who had driven her Griogair to cattle theft and other robberies of of the Campbells after Cailean had ousted clan Griogair from Castle Bealach. 

Cailean Liath, “Colin the Grey”, the son of her father’s elder brother, and Colin’s raven-haired son, Donnchadh, hardly much younger than Mór herself, were now irredeemable in her eyes. She had disliked some of Clan Griogair, as she was still just a girl as the feud came to a head in 1562. But then she met Griogair himself.

In late 1562, when Griogair had just reached the age of 21 years, the age of majority, and assumed leadership of his kindred, Colin the Grey had placed before him the difficult choice: the MacGregors would be permitted to retain possession of their ancestral lands in Glenstrae, but only on condition that Griogair accede to ‘certain unspecified legal restrictions’ and that he surrender to Cailean Liath two clansmen who had recently killed one of Campbell’s servants. If Griogair wanted to keep Glenstrae, the homeland of his people, it would be at the price of accepting conditions that would reduce him to a degree of servitude that none of his predecessors had known and flagrantly compromise his authority as chieftain. Cailean Liath gave the deadline of 1 January 1563. 

Griogair had sent his answer on the night of 7 December 1562, when he and a band of his clansmen attacked two groups of Campbells and their followers as they returned to Glen Lyon from a fair in Perth. In the first attack they set fire to an inn, killing eight men; and later the same night they fired a barn and captured the men sleeping there, one of whom was later killed. 

The feud had only intensified from there, although there was a brief lull in tensions from late 1565 to July, 1567. Although relations between the clans were still strained, Mór and Griogair were able to meet.

Despite the disapproval of Mór’s parents and kindred from both of their families, Griogair and Mór eloped. He was 25 years of age at the time and she was 18 years of age. Griogair was beautiful, tall and sinewy with a fine beard that matched the flowing waves of his copper mane and those great blue eyes that were piercing and harsh with enemies or tender and sweet with her and their little son, Alasdair the Red, who had his father’s red hair and blue eyes. Where Griogair could be daring and bold and refused to show leniency to enemies, he was playful and jocund with family and friends and playful and tender with Mór and Alasdair.

_Had there been twelve of his kinsmen,_  
_with my Gregor at their head,_  
_My eyes would not be weeping tears,_  
_nor my own child left without kindred._

Over and over for eight months, Mór demanded to visit Gregor and, over and over, her family refused. This only served to fuel her blossoming resentment for them. 

“Why, God? O God protect Gregor the Red MacGregor from the treachery of my false kinsmen!” Mór could not help wishing that Griogair had been accompanied by a group of his kindred; he could have stood a chance against her duplicitous kinsmen, probably could have defeated them.  
But no. Less than a year after his capture, Griogair was dead. She was a widow and Alasdair an orphan. And with indecent haste, her family had married her off to Sir Robert Menzies, the newly-titled “Baron of the River Meadow”. Baron of the river-meadow. She still scoffed at the title and her new husband.

_They put his head on an oaken block_  
_and spilled his blood on the ground,_  
_If I had had a cup there,_  
_I’d have drunk my fill of it._

__Mór was sure that the world had stopped. A moment crawled like eternity. She, a young, pregnant mother, had been forced to watch as her Griogair was beheaded by Cailean Liath himself. It was April 7, 1570, and the morning was still unfolding. Her darling Gregor was only 29 years of age. And scarlet gore still poured from her beloved husband’s body as his head was unceremoniously carried off and mounted on a stake to show that “justice” had been done. The crowd of her relations attending the execution cheered loudly, but it was not enough to drown out her anguished screams. Had her cousins not been restraining her, had she not been almost nine months with child, she would have dashed for the fallen body of her husband. She would have, in her grief, drank his spilled blood._ _

_____It’s a pity my father was not taken in illness,_  
_and Colin with the plague,_  
_Even though Ruthven’s daughter would be left_  
_wringing her hands._

__Mór had felt her pain fester into rage toward her family for the arrest and execution of her husband, for this betrayal of their own kinswoman. Her own father had played a part! And her damned cousin, Cailean, she held him responsible for this injustice; he had been the one who appropriated Bealach Castle from Clan Gregor twenty years earlier, ousting them with their chieftain, Griogair’s cousin. Now it was Cailean’s domain and the site of her darling Griogair’s death._ _

__Mór knew that there was little she could do in terms of revenge against her kindred for what they had done to her. That did not stop her from weaving her anger into the lament that she soon began composing for her Gregor, and to say the least she had trouble disguising her outrage and resentment. She wanted to kill Cailean, but she still had a soft spot for his wife, Caitrìona, a daughter of Clan Ruthven; the two women had always gotten along, despite Cailean’s recent behavior, and Mór did not want her kinswoman in the same martyrdom of widowhood that she was currently suffering._ _

_I would lock Grey Colin up,_  
_and put Black Duncan in prison,_  
_And cause every Campbell in Bealach_  
_to endure hand-cuffs._

__Her damned cousins, Cailean Liath and his son Donnchadh Dubh, Mór could not find it in herself to forgive them, or for that matter any of her relations who had colluded with them and now held Griogair’s family estate, Castle Bealach. If she had her way, Mór would have them suffer the same agonies that her Griogair suffered at their hands, that she had suffered by them. It hurt more than she could ever express that her own family had killed the man she loved. How could the people she loved now be the people she hated and distrusted? And Cailean Liath, she held him entirely responsible for this whole shambles._ _

__All of them should be weighted with chains and thrown into the castle dungeon, as far as she cared. She wanted to see their wrists and ankles chafed by heavy shackles, and for Cailean and Donnchadh, Mór would brank them both and leave them forever in the dank, dark bowels of the castle._ _

_____I reached the plain of Bealach,_  
_but I gained no repose there;_  
_I left no hair on my head untorn,_  
_nor skin upon my hands._

__When she was able to break away from her kindred for a moment after the execution, Mór made as fast as her pregnant condition would allow to the fields outside Bealach Castle, desperate for release from this pain that was throbbing away inside her. But she knew that it was useless._ _

__Screams and a sob that she'd never known escaped from her. The dull ache in her bosom was still a raw wound that would not give her any peace. Her own kin had just crushed her heart. It hurt so much that she could hardly breathe, and her breathing hitched violently as the reality of what had happened to her husband sank in. She stripped her kerchief from her head, the mark of a married woman, and tore frantically at her hair, beating her fists against the rough bark of a nearby oak tree, desperate to find another form of pain to mask the pain of grief. Much of her hair she had torn short and her hands bloodied from her attack on the oak, but nothing helped._ _

__She screamed, sobbing and wailing like the bean-sìth, the fairy woman. But the fairy women wailed to warn families of an impending death; Mór knew that her wail was too late to warn anybody. Her Griogair was already dead._ _

_____A pity I couldn’t rise like the lark,_  
_with Gregor’s strength in my arm:_  
_The highest stone in the castle_  
_would be the closest to the ground._

_____A pity Finlarig wasn’t in flames,_  
_and great Balloch in embers,_  
_And fair Gregor of the white palms_  
_close in my two arms._

__Enveloped in rage and grief, Mór couldn’t bear the sight of the castle where Griogair had been put to death, the castle that her family had stolen from his. It had been befouled by her family and thoroughly desecrated by her Griogair’s death; if she had his strength and had her way, she would have razed the castle to the ground herself. If she weren’t heavily pregnant, Mór herself would have torn down the building where her beloved had been murdered. She would have torn down her family’s fortress, Fionnlairig, which had been their main fortress until damned Cailean liath had stolen Bealach from Clan Griogair. And her Griogair had been imprisoned there until he was transported to his family’s former seat at Bealach for his execution. Her family had repeatedly denied her pleas to visit him._ _

__Mór shrieked and howled like a madwoman, inwardly cursing her kindred and their castles where they had held her Griogair Ruadh hostage. She would not care if both castles were in flaming ruins if it meant that Griogair could be restored to life. As uncertain as life could be, Mór had dreamed that she and Griogair would grow old together, that they would have many lovely children and numerous grandchildren. Griogair should have been there to help her welcome their second child into the world…!_ _

_____Though now I have no apples,_  
_and others have them all:_  
_My own apple, fragrant, handsome –_  
_and the back of his head on the ground._

__Apples which were exchanged as commonly as roses for love, Mór and Griogair so often exchanged them. Griogair had even called her once “my finest, most honied apple”, and she had called him “my apple tree heavy with fruit”. For the toughness of his exterior and his ruthlessness with his enemies, Griogair’s steely façade quickly fell away around her and around Alasdair._ _

__Her beloved stag, her finest apple, was now lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood, his beautiful head mercilessly severed and mounted on a stake. Where most other young women of her age were already married with at least one child, she had been made a widow in the cruelest way possible.  
But Alasdair and her unborn second child, she was not about to give up on them. She just couldn’t give up on her little ones. For their father, she would not forsake her children._ _

_____Though other men’s wives are at home,_  
_sleeping sweetly,_  
_Here am I at the edge of my bed,_  
_beating my hands in grief._

__Just short of three years of age, Alasdair Ruadh could not sleep. The trauma of the last several days had inevitably filtered to him, although Mama had done her best to shield him from the worst. He couldn’t stop thinking about Papa, whom he had hardly seen between the arrest and the execution. And now the last memory that he had of his father was that of a flailing body, blood, harsh yelling, and Mama screaming and crying._ _

__From his cot near her bed, Alasdair could see his mother’s outline sitting on the edge of the bed. He could see her rocking back and forth, her belly swollen so near the end of her pregnancy, her hands in fists and pressed together as she beat them against her knees. He could hear her sobbing. Great, struggling sobs. It still scared him to see Mama so upset._ _

__“Mama…! Please, be all right,” Mór heard that tiny voice through her delirium and her attention quickly turned to the cot a few steps away. Alasdair’s sweet little face gazed at her with big, frightened eyes. In an instant, she was at his side._ _

__“Alec, my darling,” she gasped brokenly as she pulled him into her arms, “I love you…! I’m so sorry for this… I love you, dearest!”_ _

___Despite her own pain, Mór knew that she had to be strong for her children. Alasdair had been forced to witness the horror of the execution, and as shattered as she was she knew that Alasdair must have been thoroughly terrified. Now she was even angrier with her family._  
.  
_I’d much prefer to be with Gregor_  
among woods and heather  
Than with the mean little Baron of the river-meadow,  
in a house of stone and lime. 

_____I’d much prefer to be with Gregor,_  
_driving his cattle to the glen,_  
_Than with the dry old Baron of the river-meadow,_  
_drinking wine and ale._

_____I’d much prefer to be with Gregor_  
_with only a rough, hairy mantle for covering,_  
_Than with the small-minded Baron of the river-meadow,_  
_suffering in silk and satin._

__Since it was clear to all that Mór was with child by Griogair and that he was now dead, Clan Campbell had married her off with utterly callous haste to Sir Raibeart Menzies, whose father had recently acquired the title of “Baran na Dalach”. “Baron of the river-meadow”. The “baron” was a much more advantageous match for her kindred, and he was wealthy enough to provide luxury. But it was an abject insult to a grieving, pregnant widow._ _

__“I’ll be the Countess of Six Apple Trees if he is the Baron of River Meadow,” Mór thought bitterly. Menzies was able to provide the best that a man of his status could buy, wine and beer and other luxuries, but it meant nothing to Mór. It just emphasized just how cruel that her situation was. She missed walking with Griogair as they drove his cattle to the valley, through the forests and over the moor, across rivers and streams, regardless of how cold or wet or windy that the weather might be. They had their cloaks, they had each other. Stealing kisses between guiding the collies with herding, how he caressed and adored her swollen belly when she was pregnant with Alasdair, how he had shown to her a tenderness that he showed to nobody else._ _

__Instead, she was trapped in a marriage into which her family had forced her, to a man she hated. They were now “the Lord and Lady of River Meadow”. And she felt suffocated by the silk, satin, and velvet that she wore. Even when she wore a rough, hairy mantle when walking in the rain with Griogair, she felt like a queen. Griogair was her Lord and she was his Lady._ _

_____Although there would be storm and snow-drift,_  
_a day of the seven gales,_  
_Gregor would find me a little nook_  
_where we would sleep in shelter._

__“Are you sure that we will be safe here, darling of my heart?”  
It was not long after they had married and they were caught in a rainy gale, unable to reach the shelter of a house, and Mór looked skeptically at the rocky shelter to which Griogair proudly pointed._ _

___“Yes, of course, fairest,”_  
Griogair’s smile and affectionate gaze reassured Mór somewhat,  
“I know this shelter; I have slept here many nights. I have never felt a downpour here. Come!” 

__Initially hesitant, Mór soon found that he was right. While sleeping on the ground in a rocky nook was not the most comfortable thing, she had not slept so soundly in a long time. They were safe from the wind and the rain. And with Griogair’s strong arms around her, his big hands running lovingly running through her chestnut tresses while she stroked the gentle curl of his coppery locks, gazing into each other’s eyes._ _

__“I adore you, my darling Marion,” Griogair crooned to Mór, desire blooming in his eyes, desire that was blossoming in Mór’s eyes.  
“I adore you, my beloved Gregor, Mór answered, “I desire you, darling…!”_ _

__The weather was much lighter when they awoke. A sleepy smile from Griogair was the first clear thing that Mór saw._ _

__“Good morning, fairest.”  
“Good morning, darling,” Mór smiled giddily as they shared a good-morning kiss. The evening before had become passionate after they had settled into the shelter and the glow was still evident in their silly smiles. _ _

Then she remembered. Her _bréid_.  
The white linen kerchief that differentiated a married woman from girls and maidens, who wore a headband but were otherwise bareheaded, meant the world to her now, a newly married woman married to a man whose heart and soul were entwined with her own.  
“Where’s my kerchief?” Mór asked, instantly anxious. 

__Griogair reached behind her back and lifted the kerchief from the ground, playfully dangling it above them with a cheeky smile,  
“Oh Marion darling, like the world would end over a missing kerchief. I adore you.”_ _

__Mór knew then, despite lingering unease about tensions between their families and her own anxiety as a newlywed, that their marriage would last. When she eagerly told Griogair several weeks later that he would soon be a father, she marveled at her good fortune as she watched Griogair’s ecstatic expression._ _

__\-----_ _

__“Mama, what’s wrong?”  
Alasdair’s eyes were glazed with fear as Mór grimaced. Childbirth had begun. She could not believe that this was happening; Griogair, her darling husband and the father of her children, was dead by her own kinsmen, and now so soon after his execution she felt the spasms of childbirth beginning. _ _

__“It’s all right, poppet,” Mór lied through her teeth as the contractions made each passing moment less and less comfortable, “Your little brother is ready to be born,” she turned to one of the maidservants that her new husband had provided, “Would you fetch the midwife, Jenny? Quickly, if you please.”_ _

__“Yes, My Lady,” came the meek reply. The maidservant Sìneag, a girl about five years younger than Mór, recognized the desperation in her mistress’ order and fled to fetch the midwife._ _

__Hours seemed like days as they passed and Mór gripped the arm of the birthing chair and rested against her sister, Ealasaid, who stood behind her, supporting her, “You’re doing well, Marion darling, I’m right here. Keep going.”_ _

__“There’s the head, My Lady, you are doing well. Push,” the midwife stoically instructed as the baby’s head emerged and she heard the cries of the newborn._ _

__In a daze, Mór followed the gentle command and soon heard the joyous declaration, “‘Tis a bonny little boy, Lady Marion. God bless you!”_ _

_____Ba hu, ba hu, little orphan,_  
_you are only young yet;_  
_But I fear the day will never come_  
_that you will avenge your father._

__

__Iain dubh was a hearty baby, and despite his raven hair he looked a lot like Griogair. And where Alasdair had been a fairly placid baby, Iain was born screaming and easily upset and Mór wondered if the anguish that she suffered for most of those months that she carried him before his birth had shaped him.  
These two little boys were all that she had left of their father, and it hurt all over again that Griogair was no longer alive and would never meet his younger son. Mór guarded them with her life. _ _

__It was rare that Alasdair and Iain slept at the same time. Mór often sang them both to sleep. She’d been composing a lament for her Griogair and, unable to voice her pain and outrage in more direct ways, she composed it as a lullaby for her sons. And she was not shy about singing it in the presence of her maidservants._ _

__“Our Father in Heaven, for my beloved Gregor, may my sons reach maturity. Watch over them, that they may survive to avenge their father,” Mór thought as she watched her boys sleeping, humming to make sure that they slept._ _

__“Sleep, my darlings. You in God’s protection, and I with my grief,” Mór thought wistfully as she watched them adoringly, “That you remember that Mama and Papa love you. That Papa will see justice.”_ _

_____Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Sore is my heart, my dear child;_  
_Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh,_  
_Your father won’t hear our cries_


End file.
